A Tribute of
Regard,
Presented by
Thy Affectionate
Friend
Frontispiece.
The Farm Yard.
A
VISIT
TO
A FARM HOUSE;
OR,
AN INTRODUCTION
TO
VARIOUS SUBJECTS
CONNECTED WITH
RURAL ECONOMY.
EMBELLISHED WITH BEAUTIFUL PLATES.
By S. W.
AUTHOR OF “A VISIT TO LONDON.”
SEVENTH EDITION,
REVISED AND CORRECTED
By T.H.
LONDON:
WILLIAM DARTON, 58, HOLBORN HILL.
And to be had of all Booksellers.
1820.
(Entered at Stationers’ Hall.)
[PRICE HALF-A-CROWN.]
PREFACE.
This little Work was undertaken to excite the attention of those children, who live in the country, to the various objects by which they are surrounded; and to furnish those residing in the metropolis and other large cities, with some information relative to rural economy, which their situation prevents them acquiring by personal observation.
The author acknowledges that she is totally incompetent deeply to discuss the phenomena of nature, or the science of agriculture; she should indeed think it inconsistent to introduce scientific researches into a Work of this kind. But a slight investigation of the simple arts by which the nourishment of man is effected, or of some of those wonders of creative power which daily present themselves to view, cannot, in her opinion, be deemed an improper exercise even at an early age.
VISITS
TO
A FARM HOUSE.
CHAPTER I.
Cows.
“What a delightful morning!” exclaimed little Arthur Benson on opening his eyes, and seeing the sun shine bright into his room; “Charles, Charles,” continued he, turning to his brother, who was still asleep, “let us get up directly, and we shall have time for a little walk before grandpapa and grandmamma come down stairs.” Charles obeyed the summons, and they were soon dressed. They then went into the garden, and from the garden into the field adjoining; both highly pleased with all they saw, for they had never slept out of London before, and the country was quite a new scene to them. “See,” said Charles, “how all the cows are gathered together by that gate; and here comes a man they call old Ralph with a pail on his arm. Pray, Ralph, what do the cows want there?” “They want to be milked,” said Ralph, “and through that gate is the way to the farm yard.” “Are you going to milk them, and may we come with you?” inquired Arthur.
Leave being given, they tripped along by the side of the good old servant; but both stood at some distance behind when they came near the cows, as they felt rather afraid of going close to such large animals. “Why, now, masters, what is there to be afraid of?” said Ralph, who found they had left off talking and suddenly shrunk back. “The cows will not hurt you, if you do not hurt them.” “Don’t they sometimes toss people with their great horns?” asked Charles. “Here and there you may meet with a vicious one,” replied the man, “but in common they are very gentle.”
Arthur. I remember my papa told me never to run in the way of the cows that we meet in London streets.
Ralph. Aye, that is a very different thing. The poor cattle are not used to be there, so sometimes they may be frightened; and then, the butchers are often cruel, and will beat and drive them about, as I have heard, so that for what I know it may be best to keep out of their way; but here there is nothing of the sort. I do not ill use them, and they are always quiet with me.
The little Bensons then recovered from their fears, and wanted to milk the cows themselves. The trial was made, and they were surprised to find that they were not able to do it as well as Ralph. Had they been older, they would have known that there are many things which are easy to those who are accustomed to do them, that one who had never tried would find difficult.
“Pray, Ralph,” asked Arthur, “why has the young calf that thing full of spikes round his mouth? See, he wants to suck the black cow, and she will not let him. Cannot you take it off?”
“Oh no, master Arthur, it is time the calf should be weaned. He is old enough now to eat grass, and we want the milk for the dairy; so we put the spikes on him, and because of them, as they would hurt her, the mother will not let him suck any more.”
“Is he to be killed?” inquired Charles.
“Not at present,” replied the old man. “Master means to keep him to draw in the team.”
“To draw in the team!” said Charles with some surprise.
“Yes,” returned Ralph; “we have always a team of oxen. You may see them ploughing in that field yonder; just there,” continued he, pointing with his finger, “beyond the holly hedge.”
“I see them; I see them,” said Arthur. “Poor creatures! how slow they go! Are not they tired, Ralph?” “No, sir,” replied Ralph, “they do not move so quick as horses; but they are vastly stronger. And though it is not always quite so easy to manage them, yet on the whole they answer very well.”
Ralph had now finished milking: and taking the little boys into the stable, he showed them a baby calf, as he called it, that was to be sold to the butcher the next day.
The baby Calf.
London. Published by W. Darton Jun. Oct. 5, 1815.
“O you pretty little thing!” said Arthur. “Only look, Charles, at these spots on its back. I should like to have it for my own. Why must it be killed, pray?”
Ralph. To serve us for food, master Arthur. If we were to suffer all the cattle to live, they would eat all the grass and corn that we could grow; and then we should be starved, and you would not like that.
Arthur. No, I don’t want to starve; only I do not like to have things killed.
At this moment Mr. Mansfield came into the stable.
“We were talking about this poor calf, grandpapa,” said Charles. “Ralph says it is to be killed to-morrow to make veal. I am sorry for it; it has such a pretty coat!”
“It cannot be helped, my dear,” replied his grandfather. “But when it is dead, do you know what will be done with its pretty coat?” The boys answering they did not, “It will be sold,” said he, “to the tanner, who dresses the skins of cattle, or hides as they are called; and when it is properly prepared, it makes that beautiful, smooth kind of leather, that the large books you were looking at last night were bound with. It is often prepared to write upon, and is then called vellum. The skins of oxen and cows make a thick coarse leather, such as the soles of our boots and shoes.”
“And what becomes of the hair?” asked Charles.
“After the hide has been soaked for a long time,” replied Mr. Mansfield, “it comes off easily, and is put into that kind of mortar which is used to plaster walls, in order to keep them from crumbling and falling away. Did you never see in a white wall broken down in part, a heap of short hairs, and here and there perhaps a little loose piece of mortar hanging to them?”
Arthur said he had, but he did not know it was cow-hair; and added, he could not have thought it could have been of any use.
“Every thing is of use, my dear,” said Mr. Mansfield. “I doubt if you can name a part of the cow that will not turn to some account.”
“What the hoofs, grandpapa?” said Charles.
“Yes, Charles,” returned Mr. Mansfield. “The hoofs and the parings of the skin, by being boiled down to a strong jelly, make the glue which carpenters use to join things together.”
Arthur. The horns—Oh, I know what is done with the horns. I have seen horn lanterns, and I have got a little box at home that mamma says is made of horn.
Mr. Mansfield. Very well, Arthur. And you may have seen boxes, and knife-handles, and combs, and many other things, made of the bones of the ox. Even the dung is of some use. It is a good manure for land; it is used in the process for bleaching linen; and poor women pick it up when it is dry, and make fires of it, to save coals.
CHAPTER II.
The Dairy.
Mrs. Mansfield, hearing how much her little grandsons had been pleased with the cows, after breakfast took them into the dairy, to show them what was done with the milk which those useful animals give in such large quantities. The dairy was a little room with a brick floor, facing the north, and kept very cool, by means of a latticed window that let in fresh air. It was necessary that it should be built in that way, because heat soon turns milk sour. Round the room were fixed a sort of trays lined with lead, which then were all filled with milk.
“Grandmamma, what is to be done with this milk?” inquired Arthur.
“It is set for cream,” answered Mrs. Mansfield; “and the cream will be made into butter.”
Charles. How is butter made, pray?
Grandmamma. Come here, and I will show you. The milk is poured into these trays, which are not deep, but broad, so as to cover a large space. When it has stood some time, the cream or greasy part, which at first is mixed with the milk, rises to the top in the manner you now see. Then it is skimmed off with this ladle, and put into a pan by itself. This is done twice a-day; and when there is cream enough, it is churned into butter.
Charles. Is there any churn here, grandmamma? Sister Kate has got a plaything churn, but I never saw one fit for real use.
Mrs. Mansfield pointed to a large barrel fixed on a stand, with a winch handle to turn it, and told him that was the churn. Charles was surprised, and said it was not at all like his sister’s.
Grandmamma. Perhaps not. Sometimes they are made like a pail, with a long stick to pull up and down; but these I have give less trouble, and, I believe, are now common.
The Dairy.
London. Published by W. Darton Junʳ. Oct. 5, 1815.
Arthur. Well, grandmamma, how is this used?
Grandmamma. The cream is put in through that little square door, which is then shut quite close; and when the churn has been turned a good while, it is changed into butter.
Charles. So then butter is nothing but cream shaken about? I should like to see it made.
Grandmamma. You cannot see it now, my dear, because Rose churned yesterday. But I will give you a little cream in a phial: and you may shake it till you make it into butter.
Arthur. Oh, can we make it so? I should like it very much indeed, if you please, ma’am.
Mrs. Mansfield fetched a phial, and the two boys amused themselves a long time with their experiment. But they found that with all their pains they could not turn the whole into butter; their grandmamma told them there was always some waste; that it was called buttermilk, and given to the pigs.
Arthur and Charles, quite proud of their success, went to look for Rose, that they might tell her they could make butter as well as she. They found her in the dairy, where their attention was drawn to a new circumstance. Rose was standing before a large tub, full of a white substance rather thicker than jelly, which she was very diligently employed in breaking.
They forgot the butter they had intended to boast of, and both began to ask a variety of questions, which she answered with great good humour.
Both the Boys. What is that for? What are you doing now, Rose?
Rose. Making cheese.
Charles. Making cheese? Well, since I have been at my grandpapa’s, I have seen things I never saw before.
Arthur. But how do you make it, Rose? What have you got there?
Rose. Curd.
Arthur. What is curd?
Rose. It is made from milk, master Arthur. When the cream is taken off, we take the milk and mix it with rennet, and then—
Arthur. Rennet! What is that?
Rose. A sour juice that is made by boiling a part of the inside of a calf. We put a little rennet to the milk, which makes it part into curds and whey. This thick white part is the curd, and the thin watery part is called whey.
Arthur. Is that the whey people take for a cold?
Rose. No. That kind of whey is made with wine instead of rennet; but the curd parts just in the same manner as this.
Charles. I will ask our Sally to let me look at it the next time she makes whey. But why do you break it?
Rose. That there may be no lumps. Wait a little, if you please, and you shall see how I go on.
She then took a large round bag made of coarse cloth, into which she put all the curd, and pressed it with very heavy weights in order to squeeze out as much of the whey as she could. This done, she turned it out of the bag into a vat which has holes like a cullender, and, leaving it to drain, then told them the cheese was finished.
“I did not know,” said Charles, “it was so easy to make cheese. But what is the rind, pray?”
“’Tis the same as the rest,” replied Rose; “only, being left to the air, it grows hard in time.” Then leading them into another room, she showed them a great number of cheeses; some were still soft, having been lately made; others, that had been longer kept, were grown quite hard.
“What is the whey good for?’ asked Charles, as they came back through the dairy.
“We give it to the pigs,” said Rose.
“So then,” said Arthur to himself as he walked away, “butter and cheese are both made from milk; but the butter is the greasy part, and the cheese is the curdy.”
“Yes, master Arthur,” said Rose, “you are right, for that is our way of making butter and cheese in this country: but in many places, where richer cheese is made, they use the milk without skimming off the cream; and to make good cream cheese, the cream only is used when skimmed from the milk.”
CHAPTER III.
The Pigs.
When dinner-time came, it happened that there were brought to table some custards and gooseberry tarts, of which Charles was tempted to eat very greedily. He had already been twice helped, and the servant was going to carry away the remainder of a tart that had been left in the dish, when Charles, not satisfied whilst any remained, stopped him, and once more filled his plate with it.
The footman stared; and his grandpapa and grandmamma looked at him with surprise, but said nothing.
In the evening Mr. Mansfield led his grandsons into the yard, just at the time his man was giving the pigs their supper. Arthur and Charles were diverted at the eagerness with which the whole family squeaked and grunted over their food, which they devoured with the utmost haste, treading one over another as they scrambled for a share.
“O grandpapa,” exclaimed Charles, “how droll it is to see the pigs eat! Look there! look there! One has got a cabbage leaf, and another wants it. Now it has got it away, and it eats it as fast as ever it can. And now it is come for more. I dare say they will soon empty the trough.”
“Perhaps so,” replied his grandpapa, smiling. “Pigs are as fond of cabbage leaves and bean stalks, as little boys are of gooseberry pie.”
Charles blushed.
“Hey, Charles!” continued he, putting his hand upon his head so as to look full in his face, “this is not the first time to-day I thought I had a pig for my companion. Do you know any body that ate voraciously, and at last emptied the dish?”
Charles softly answered, “Yes, sir.”
“Well, I believe he is ashamed of his greediness,” said Mr. Mansfield; “I only advise him another time to be more upon his guard for fear we should take him for a pig.”
As they were sauntering about, a sow with a fine litter of pigs at her heels came across the yard.
“Pray, sir,” asked Arthur, “how many pigs may a sow have at once?”
“From ten to twenty,” said Mr. Mansfield. “But as she has not milk enough to suckle so many, she casts off some, and seldom brings up more than twelve.”
Arthur. What food do they like best, sir?
The Pigs.
London. Published by W. Darton Junʳ. Oct. 5, 1815.
Grandpapa. They are not very difficult. They will eat almost any kind of rubbish and offal: but vegetables of all sorts are best for them. Cabbage stalks, potatoe parings, bean and pea shells, they like very well; and it is a good way to turn them out into the forests, where they meet with plenty of acorns, and mast nuts that grow upon beach trees. With their long snouts they turn up the ground, that they may get at the roots or plants: to prevent this, we are obliged to have a ring thrust through their noses, otherwise they would do a great deal of mischief.
Charles. Are they of much use, grandpapa?
Grandpapa. Not whilst they are alive. When dead, the flesh, you know, is eaten, and is called pork, or bacon if salted in a particular manner. The lard, or some of the fat, is used in making many sorts of plasters, and the bristles are formed into brushes of various kinds; and are used by shoemakers and others in sewing leather, instead of needles.
Arthur. I like little pigs much better than I do great old ones.
Grandpapa. I cannot say the hog is a favourite animal with me. He is not only ugly, but his habits of life are disagreeable. You may have observed that he is very fond of grouting in the mire. Neither his grunting nor his squeaking is pleasant music; and the whole race are so greedy, that, if they have food enough, they will eat till they are too heavy to stand on their legs; even then they will lie on their sides, and eat still. Sometimes the sow will go so far as to devour her own young.
Arthur. Indeed? The unnatural brute!
Grandpapa. I should have told you that their stomach is made very large, and requires an unusual quantity of food. But if we are disgusted with the manners of a hog, we should be careful not to imitate them; as filth, gluttony, and want of natural affection, must surely be ten times more shocking in the creature man, who is blessed with reason.
CHAPTER IV.
Sheep-Shearing.
The following day being appointed for sheep-shearing, a number of men and boys assembled at an early hour in the great barn. Arthur and Charles went with their grandpapa to see the process, and were greatly pleased with the hurry and bustle of the scene. The sheep were penned in a fold close to the barn, and were fetched away by the lads one by one, as fast as the shearers were ready for them. A few days before, they had all been washed at a mill-pond, so that their fleeces were beautifully white, and they were so thick as to make the animals appear almost twice as large as they really were.
Sheep Shearing.
London. Published by W. Darton Junʳ. Octʳ. 5, 1815.
Arthur observed with surprise, that the poor creatures were perfectly quiet during the time of their being shorn; although they struggled with terror when they were first brought out, and bleated piteously as soon as they were set at liberty.
He wondered at the ease with which the men laid them on the ground, and afterwards turned them over from side to side, as was necessary in the course of the shearing. After watching one of the shearers for some time, he began the following conversation with him:—
Arthur. Good man, does not it hurt the sheep to be pulled about in that way?
The Man. They do not like it; but I try to hurt them as little as I can.
Arthur. Are you not afraid of cutting them with the shears, when you put them down into the middle of the wool?
The Man. We take care to feel our way, but now and then they get an unlucky snip. That man there, that stands by the door, has some tar that he puts to them if they chance to be hurt.
Arthur. Poor things! how cold they must feel when they lose such a quantity of wool!
The Man. It is time they should be shorn now, master. This is their winter coat, as one may say; and if it was left much longer, by little and little it would fall off of itself.
Arthur. Then why don’t you let it come off of itself, instead of taking all this trouble, and teasing the sheep?
The Man. My service to you, sir! What, are we to lose the wool, or to follow the sheep from place to place wherever they choose to stray, in order to gather it after them? No, no; they may suffer a little at first, but if the weather is warm they soon get over it.
Arthur. How many can you shear in a day, good man?
The Man. Why, fifty, more or less. The quickest hands can finish one in ten minutes.
Charles during this time was helping a little girl to pick up the loose locks of wool that were scattered over the floor. His brother turned round, and saw how he was employed. What should he do? Every one was busy besides himself, and he could not bear to be the only idle person. A message came to fetch away one of the women, whose task it was to roll up the fleeces and pile them together on a heap. Arthur offered to take her place; and, after a few trials, he learned to tie them up very dexterously. He continued at this employment for some time, and rejoiced to find himself of some use.
Mr. Mansfield at length called the two boys to go away. They immediately obeyed; and Charles, taking hold of his grandpapa’s hand, asked him if he did not think a sheep-shearing was a most charming thing.
Grandpapa. It does very well in its season, my dear boy. Wool is so useful, that the shearing-time always gives me pleasure.
Arthur. What shall you do with it, grandpapa?
Grandpapa. I shall sell it to the wool-stapler; and, after it has passed through the hands of different manufacturers, you may perhaps meet with it again in some shop, though so altered as not to be known for the same. It will then be in the shape of flannel, worsted, cloth, or perhaps some kind of stuff.
“That is all very droll,” said Charles. “But when will there be another sheep-shearing, grandpapa?”
“Not till this day twelvemonth, my dear,” returned Mr. Mansfield. “Wool does not grow very fast. In two or three weeks you will see the sheep covered with a little short wool; and the traces of the shears will then be worn away. As winter comes on, it grows thicker and longer; but that is not a time to rob them of their fleece. At last the year will come round, and then they will be again ready for the shearer.”
“I am fond of sheep,” said Arthur; “and I like little lambs, they look so innocent.”
Grandpapa. They are gentle, timid creatures, and require the care of man more than almost any other animal; as they have neither strength to defend themselves when attacked by their enemies, nor swiftness to run from danger.
Arthur. And they pay us for the care we take of them, by letting us have their wool?
Grandpapa. Indeed they do, Arthur; but not by their wool alone, for they are useful in more ways than one. Mutton, which you know is the flesh of the sheep, is one of the most wholesome meats we have; some parts of the fat are melted down to make tallow. The skin is sometimes made into parchment, and sometimes into leather, for gloves, shoes, and other things: and parts of the guts are twisted into strings for musical instruments.
Charles. What enemies have sheep, grandpapa? You have said they can’t defend themselves against their enemies.
Grandpapa. Wherever there are wild beasts, Charles, they have many enemies, as they all prey upon the sheep. Eagles will attack young lambs; so will foxes; and even dogs, if they are fierce, and not properly trained.
Arthur. But I have often seen a dog along with a flock of sheep.
Grandpapa. Yes; the breed that is called the shepherd’s dog is very useful in managing them. They seldom bite, but will fetch those back that have gone astray; and by barking at them alone, guide the whole flock much more easily than a man can do. When they have done their business, you may see them come back to the shepherd, and follow him as quietly as possible.
In the evening a supper was provided to refresh the shearers after their hard day’s work, consisting of legs of mutton, and plum-puddings, with plenty of good ale. All was jollity and mirth. During the day a constant buz of many voices might have been heard even at some distance from the barn; but the business they were engaged in did not allow time for much talk. At night, on the contrary, they had nothing to do but to divert themselves, and every tongue was heard. They told merry stories without end, sang songs, and drank to the health of their kind master. Mr. Mansfield himself staid with them for some time, encouraging them to be cheerful, and walked about to see that every body was helped. At length, he left the party, followed by his grand-children, who immediately retired to rest, highly satisfied with the pleasures of the day.
CHAPTER V.
A Walk through the Fields.
The next morning, Mr. Mansfield asked the little boys if they were disposed for a walk. Arthur replied that he should like it very much; but Charles said he would rather stay at home with his grandmamma; accordingly they set off without him.
“What pretty purple flowers grow in that field!” observed Arthur, when they had proceeded a little way. “Pray, grandpapa, what are they?”
“That is a field of clover,” replied Mr. Mansfield; “and it will soon be cut for hay.”
Arthur. I never saw such pretty hay as that.
Grandpapa. Oh, there will be no beauty in it. On the contrary, it looks much coarser and browner than what is made of common grass, which is called meadow hay.
Arthur. What becomes of the flowers then?
Grandpapa. They dry and wither away. You do not suppose they would live when cut down. Did you ever see how hay is made?
Arthur. Yes, a great many times. A number of men and women go into a field and turn the grass, and then they put it into cocks, and afterwards make a stack of it.
Grandpapa. Why do they do all that?
Arthur. To make it into hay.
Grandpapa. Yes. But why does turning it about make grass into hay?
Arthur said he did not know.
Grandpapa. Then I will tell you. The grass when cut down is full of moisture. If you squeeze a blade in your fingers, it will be damp; and that dampness is called sap. Now, while the sap is in it the grass will not keep. If you were to make it into a stack, it would soon rot, and smell so putrid you would not like to go near it. But when it is turned about to the sun and the wind, till the sap is dried away, there is no more danger, and you may stack it, and keep it for a long time.
Arthur. But if I had a field, grandpapa, I would never make hay. My horses should go in and eat the grass when they wanted it; and I would save myself the trouble of working for them.
Grandpapa. I am afraid, Arthur, you would make a lazy farmer. Do not you know that nothing in this world is to be had without trouble? and if you are so very sparing of your pains, I fear you will not succeed very well.
Arthur. Why not, pray, sir?
Grandpapa. Did you ever take notice of the grass in the winter?
Arthur. Yes; I believe it is then short and black.
Grandpapa. The blackness is nothing but the earth among it; it is very thin at that time of the year. Did you ever observe a field just before it was cut for hay?
Arthur. Oh, yes. Do you know, grandpapa, we all took a walk in a field a little while ago; and the grass was so very long that it came up to the top of my legs; and little Kate cried, and could not get on at all.
Grandpapa. You see then, that as there is much grass in summer and but little in winter, your horses at one time would have more than they could eat, and at another would starve. Yet this would be owing to your own fault: for God gives enough for the whole year; and all he requires of us is, that we should in the season of plenty lay up for the time of need.
CHAPTER VI.
The Walk continued.
The next field they came to was sown with rye, which Mr. Mansfield said was a species of corn; and, although much coarser than wheat, was frequently made into bread, and in many places formed the chief food of the poor. He desired his grandson to gather an ear or two, that he might learn to distinguish between that and barley, which grew in the field through which they were next to pass.
Arthur pulled up a root of rye, and then ran to overtake his grandfather, who by this time had got over the stile, and was slowly crossing the barley field.
“Well, Arthur, what difference do you find in the growth of these two kinds of corn?” asked Mr. Mansfield.
Arthur. Indeed, grandpapa, I don’t see any, except that the rye grows very high, as high as the top of your hat, and that the barley only comes to my elbow.
Mr. Mansfield. That is one difference, to be sure. Examine them well, and perhaps you may discover some other.
Arthur. Oh, yes, I see, sir. The spikes of the rye are neither so fine nor so long as in the barley.
Mr. Mansfield. Very true again. So you see you need never mistake between them. The straw of the rye is the longest, but the beard (you should not call it the spikes) is shorter and coarser.
Arthur. I think the long beard of the barley gives it rather a silky look, as it waves about with the wind. Pray, grandpapa, is barley sown to make bread too?
Mr. Mansfield. Sometimes it is used for that purpose; but the greatest part of what we grow in England is for making beer.
Arthur. Beer! Is it possible that barley can make beer? Do you know, sir, how it is done?
Mr. Mansfield. Yes; and you shall hear, if you wish to know. All grain is the seed of the plant; and before it can be put to any use it must be taken out of the ear. Now, to do that, it is thrashed with an instrument called a flail. I suppose you have seen one, have you not?
Arthur. I remember once passing at some distance from a barn, where a man was swinging something about, that looked like a bent stick; and he beat the ground with it, and somebody said he was thrashing.
Mr. Mansfield. That he certainly was. The corn was spread upon the barn-floor, and he was beating out the grain with a flail. The next business is to separate it from the chaff, or outside skin. This is sometimes done by turning a machine very quickly so as to cause a wind, which blows away the chaff, for it is as light as a feather. A more simple method is, to throw the corn across from one side of the barn to the other, against the wind. The chaff, being so light, is soon blown back, whilst the corn goes on a little further, and falls in a heap by itself.
Arthur. But, dear grandpapa, what has this to do with making beer?
Mr. Mansfield. All in good time, my dear boy. You must get at the barley before you can use it, must you not? The method of winnowing I have described, relates principally to wheat (for barley is without chaff); but the barley must be thrashed, and separated from the ear; after which it is put for some days into a cistern of water. It is then taken out and laid in heaps; when it ferments, and is ready to shoot out in the same manner as if sown in the ground. Afterwards it is spread thinly over a floor, and frequently turned; and when partly dry is carried to a kiln, a kind of oven, where it is dried. Having passed through all this process it is called malt, and the man whose business it is, is termed a maltster.
Arthur. I thought brewers made beer?
Mr. Mansfield. You were right. Brewers buy malt. They grind it, and then pour hot water upon it, to get out its strength and goodness. The liquor thus obtained, which is sweet-wort, becomes the most valuable part of the commodity; for the malt has lost its virtue, and is called grains, and is only used to feed pigs and cattle. The wort is afterwards boiled with hops, which give it a bitterish taste instead of a sickly sweet, and keep it wholesome and good. Then it takes the name of beer; and after fermenting for a little while may be put into casks and kept for use. And now, Arthur, do you think that you understand brewing? Shall you recollect that malt is barley prepared in a particular way? and that beer is made by pouring warm water on the malt, and afterwards boiling it with hops?
Arthur. I think I shall, grandpapa.
CHAPTER VII.
The Pony.
As Mr. Mansfield and Arthur were returning from their walk, in a lane at a little distance from the house they were met by Charles, who had mounted a pony belonging to his grandfather: it had taken fright, and was running away at full speed. Mr. Mansfield stopped it by catching hold of the bridle; and as soon as he was satisfied that no mischief had happened, and Charles was sufficiently recovered to be able to talk, he inquired what had led him to try his skill in horsemanship.
Charles on the Poney.
London. Published by W. Darton Junʳ. Oct. 5, 1815.
“Why, grandpapa,” replied Charles, “Robert had just come home with the pony, and left him at the gate; and I wanted to ride; so I got upon him, and he ran away with me.”
Mr. Mansfield. As you have never been used to ride, my dear Charles, you had better not get upon strange horses when you are alone. I wonder too that Plover should run away; he is in general very gentle.
Charles. At first he would keep his head over the gate, and I could not get him to move. So I hit him with a stick I had in my hand, and that set him off in a gallop.
Mr. Mansfield. I fancy all was owing to your want of skill; for Plover is a very quiet creature, and easily managed; but he will not bear ill usage; therefore, if you beat him much, I am not surprised at the accident.
Arthur. I am sure, grandpapa, Charles did not mean to be cruel, and use the horse ill.
Mr. Mansfield. He is so good a boy that I do not suspect him of it; and I only meant to give him a caution against another time. No, my dear children, I hope you will never take pleasure in wanton cruelty. My heart has often ached at the barbarities I have seen practised on poor dumb creatures.
Arthur. Once when I was walking with papa, we saw a man beating a horse about the head with the butt end of his whip, and my papa advised him not to do so; but he said it was his own horse, and he had a right to do as he liked.
Mr. Mansfield. Nothing can give a man a right to be cruel. We may, it is true, make what use we please of our beasts, as long as we treat them well, for they were made for our convenience; but God Almighty has given to them life and feeling the same as he has to us; and we make him angry with us whenever we use them ill.
“I often think, grandpapa, that it is very strange such large creatures as these,” said Arthur, patting Plover, who now walked quietly by the side of his master, “should suffer us to get upon their backs, and manage them as we please. They are much stronger than we are; and I wonder they do not drive us away, and not carry us, and refuse to draw our coaches and do every thing we like.”
Mr. Mansfield. It would be astonishing, Arthur, if we did not consider that our reason gives us a great advantage over all brutes. Some of them, it is true, are much larger, some much stronger, and others much swifter than we; but by means of our understanding we can conquer the strongest, and tame the fiercest of them.
Charles. How can we tame them, pray, sir?
Mr. Mansfield. By methods which they cannot resist. Plover is stronger than you, but a boy of your size who understands riding would be able to manage him. He would pull the bridle on this side, or on that, according as he wished him to turn; and as he pulled, the bit would hurt the horse’s mouth just enough to make him willing to go where he was wanted: therefore, by our knowing how to manage a bit and a bridle, we are more than a match for a horse in spite of his great strength.
Arthur. I understand you now, grandpapa. And I have something to tell you. As we were taking a walk a little while ago, a dog came barking and snapping, and I thought he was going to bite me; but my mamma called out, “Don’t be frightened, Arthur; pick up a stone to throw at the dog, and it will send him away.” So I did, and to be sure he slunk off at once. Now was not it my reason that made me conquer the dog, though the dog could bite harder than myself?
Mr. Mansfield. Exactly so. You see, then, that although our bodies are naturally weak and helpless, yet by our reason we are furnished with the means of strength and defence. So God has ordained; and therefore, though he will not suffer us to be cruel to any of his creatures, yet, as our Bible tells us, he said at the beginning of the world, that the fear and dread of man should be for ever upon all animals.
As Mr. Mansfield finished these words, they reached the stable yard, and Ralph came forward to unharness the pony.
“Plover must be shod to-morrow, sir,” said he, as he looked at one of his hinder feet.
“Is not it cruel, grandpapa,” asked Charles, “to drive nails into the horse’s feet?”
Mr. Mansfield. No, my dear, it is not. The nails only go into the hoofs, which are very hard, and have not any feeling; but if we did not put on these iron shoes, the hoofs, hard as they are, would soon be battered to pieces when they travel over rough and gravelled ground.
Arthur. Dead horses are of no use; are they, sir?
Mr. Mansfield. Their flesh is given to dogs; but the skin, when converted into leather, is used for making harness and some other things.
CHAPTER VIII.
A Visit to the Windmill.
“Do you know, my dear,” said Mrs. Mansfield to her husband, when they were sitting at tea, “the miller has forgotten to send home the flour he promised to let us have last week; and Sarah has just told me we have not enough in the house to bake to-morrow! So what must we do? Can you spare one of the men to go over and inquire about it?”
“I am afraid, my dear,” said Mr. Mansfield, “they are all busy at present; but when Ralph comes in he may go of the errand.”
“It has just occurred to me,” rejoined Mrs. Mansfield, “that if you are disposed for another walk this fine evening, you might go yourself and take the children with you; and it will be a nice treat to them, for I know they have never seen a mill.”
“Ah, do go, grandpapa; will you, grandpapa? it will be so very delightful!” said both the boys at the same instant.
“Well, bring me my hat then,” said their indulgent grandfather. “I did not intend to stir again to-night; but if it will give you pleasure, my dear boys——”
“Thank you, sir! thank you, sir!” cried Charles, running for the hat.
“I hope you won’t be tired though,” said Arthur. “You shall rest upon my shoulder all the way; and do not be afraid of leaning all your weight, for I shall be able to bear it very well.”
“You shall have my shoulder to rest upon too,” exclaimed Charles: “So I dare say, grandpapa, you will not be tired.”
“Indeed,” replied Mr. Mansfield, putting one hand upon the shoulder of each, as he rose from the chair, “with two such kind little supporters, I shall not be easily fatigued.”
As they walked, Charles expressed his joy that they were going to see the inside of a mill, which was what he had long wished to do. “And, pray,” inquired he, “what is it like?”
Mr. Mansfield. That you will see when you get to it: in the mean time, Arthur, examine this wheat. I showed you barley and rye in the morning.
“There is no beard to this,” said Arthur.
Mr. Mansfield. No; and the ear is heavier and larger. Gather one, and count the number of grains it contains.
Charles pulled violently, and drew up a root that had seven stalks growing from it.
The Mill.
London. Published by W. Darton Jun. Oct. 5, 1815.
“Hold, you wasteful little fellow!” cried his grandpapa. “I did not tell you to root up my field at one stroke. Let me see, however. Observe what a wonderful increase here is. These seven stalks have all sprung from one single grain, and each ear contains, perhaps, twenty grains; which gives us in all a hundred and forty grains instead of one.”
Arthur. That is astonishing, indeed! So there always grows a hundred and forty times as much wheat as is sown?
Mr. Mansfield. No, no, I did not say that. In this instance it is so; and sometimes it may even happen to produce more; but a great deal of seed rots in the ground, without ever growing at all: of what does come up, some is spoilt before it is ripe, and the ears that come to perfection do not all yield so well as these. I believe, therefore, that taking the kingdom throughout, we only gather about eight times the quantity we sow.
Arthur. How long is wheat growing, pray, sir?
Mr. Mansfield. Nine or ten months generally. No sooner is the harvest of one year got in, than we begin to prepare for that of the ensuing year. We plough the land, and sow it again immediately. Some seed, indeed, is not sown before the spring, but that never produces quite such good crops.
Charles. What is the use of ploughing, grandpapa?
Mr. Mansfield. To break up the earth, which would otherwise get so hard that no corn could grow in it. When a field has been ploughed, a man walks over it, and scatters the seed all over the field. Then it is raked in by an instrument full of great iron teeth, called a harrow. Care must afterwards be taken to keep it free from weeds, but besides that nothing more can be done. It is left for the rain to water, and the sun to ripen it.
Charles. And when it is quite ripe, then the harvest comes, does it not, sir?
Mr. Mansfield. Yes. Then the reapers go into the field, and cut down the corn with their sickles. They tie it up in bundles, which are called sheaves, when it is carried into barns, and thrashed out for use.
As they were conversing in this manner they arrived at the mill; and when Mr. Mansfield had given his orders, he asked leave to lead his grandchildren over it. He then explained to them, how the sails, being turned round by the wind, were the occasion of turning different wheels in the inside of the building. He next pointed out to them two large flat stones, shut up in a kind of box. “You may see,” said he, “that all the corn is made to pass between these stones. The understone is fixed; but the upper one turns round, and presses so heavily upon it, as to bruise and grind the corn to powder.”
“I understand you, grandpapa,” returned Charles. “And is that all that is done here?”
Mr. Mansfield. Not all, Charles; for the corn, though ground into meal, wants sifting. To do that, there is a contrivance called a boulting engine, and you may look at it if you step this way.
Mr. Mansfield then opened a little door in the large wooden box, or bin, that contained the engine; when a quantity of fine flour flew out into their faces, and powdered them all over. The boulter was made of frame-work, five or six feet long, round which a canvas was tightly strained. “Now,” said Mr. Mansfield, “the meal is put into this boulting machine, which turns round, you see, very fast when the mill is at work. The quickness of its motion causes the fine flour to fly off through the canvas; but the coarse and husky part, which is bran, not being able to do that, falls to the bottom by itself. The use of shutting it up in this box, is to prevent the flour from being scattered over the mill.”
The Bensons and their grandfather remained at the mill till they had thoroughly examined every part of it. They received much pleasure from seeing the different wheels and contrivances, and were diverted to find, when they came away, that they were so covered with flour as to look almost as white as millers.
As they were returning home, Arthur observed, that having first seen the wheat growing, and afterwards ground, they only wanted now to know how flour was made into bread, to understand the whole process from beginning to end.
Mr. Mansfield replied, that he could easily explain that. The flour was mixed with a proper quantity of water, and a little yeast put in to make it rise. “This,” said he, “is well kneaded together, and then it is put into an oven and baked.”
“But what is yeast?” inquired Charles.
Mr. Mansfield. A scum that rises on the top of new beer.
Arthur. Have not I, sir, seen to-day, some of all the different kinds of corn that grow here?
Mr. Mansfield. I do not recollect our having met with oats. They do not grow in one compact ear like the rest, for every grain has a separate little foot-stalk to itself. In this part of the country they are chiefly given to horses; but in Scotland, and the north of England, oatmeal cakes are frequently eaten instead of bread.
“And now,” continued he, “I am not sorry to find myself near home. You, Arthur, may likewise be glad to rest yourself, for you have been stumping about almost all day.”
The boys declared they were not at all tired, and thanked their grandpapa for the pleasure he had procured them.
CHAPTER IX.
Poultry.
“Grandmamma, pray where are you going?” asked Charles one morning, on seeing his grandmother walk out at the garden door.
“To feed my chickens, my love,” returned she.
“Then I will go with you, if I may,” said Charles. “And so will I,” said Arthur: and he threw down his peg-top in a corner.
“My speckled hen,” said Mrs. Mansfield, “came off her nest, yesterday, with a fine brood of chickens.”
Arthur. That is the one, is not it, ma’am, that has been sitting so close ever since we came?
Grandmamma. Yes, and for a fortnight before, which makes in all three weeks; the time hens always sit on their eggs.
Charles. I think they must be tired of keeping still so long.
Grandmamma. I believe, Charles, you would be tired of such confinement; but birds do not seem to mind it at all. Though so active at other times; when they have laid their eggs, they are quite contented to sit still till the young ones are hatched.
Arthur. Do all birds sit for three weeks, grandmamma?
Grandmamma. No: ducks and geese sit for a month; and pigeons and smaller birds for about a fortnight. Now you may give them some of these grits, and then you will have the pleasure of seeing them peck.
Charles. Let me have a handful, if you please. Chick, chick, chick, chick! come here, poor chickey, and I will give you something to eat. Dear grandmamma! they will not let me catch them; and look at the old hen, she is almost ready to fly at me.